The Wings of Ruksh (3 page)

Count Louis de Charillon, the French Consul in Edinburgh, turned up the collar of his coat against the rain and looked at the taxi in distaste as he paid off the driver. Like so many of the taxis and buses in Edinburgh these days, it was painted in a particularly vicious-looking tartan that did much to offend his sensibilities.

He pursed his lips and shook his head slightly. What
was
it with the Scots these days that made them parade themselves, and their city, in tartan? Princes Street was awash in it and George Street … he shuddered at the memory of the dreadful banners that looped the street. Thank goodness, he thought, as he looked searchingly up and down, that the craze hadn’t yet reached the refined elegance of Moray Place, whose Georgian façade swept before him in a gracious curve. Pocketing his change as the tartan monstrosity drove off, he turned and mounted the shallow steps that led to the door of an imposing town house, scattering a couple of pigeons as he did so. Even as he raised his hand to the knocker, however, the door swung open and a fair-haired young man greeted him warmly.

“Monsieur le Comte! Welcome!”

“Mr Stuart, how are you?” Monsieur le Comte de Charillon entered the tiled hall and shook hands with his host as the butler closed the great door against the wind and driving rain.

The two pigeons, fluttering back down to resume their vigil on a stretch of railings beside the house, fluffed their feathers against the cold and eyed one another speculatively as the door closed.

“Monsieur le Comte?” repeated one. “Now, that’s
interesting
!”

“It’s French,” contributed the other.

Hamish regarded Archie sourly. “I know it’s French,” he said irritably, shifting on his claws. “But why would Kalman be entertaining a Frenchman? That’s what I want to know. Aren’t we supposed to be at loggerheads with the French these days?”

“
And
he called Prince Kalman, ‘Mr Stuart’,” added Archie. “Let’s hope the MacArthur can work that one out!”

Hamish nodded. “It’s a pity the prince has put a protective shield round his house,” he mourned, looking longingly at the curtained windows. “I’d give my eye teeth to hear what’s being said in there.”

“Pigeons don’t have eye teeth,” Archie grinned and promptly wilted under Hamish’s look of scorn. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Just a joke!”

“Will you try to remember that this is a serious mission,” hissed Hamish, “and give it some attention! We’ve been
hanging
round here for days and this is the first time we’ve managed to pick up anything at all valuable.”

“Can we go back to the hill, then and tell the MacArthur?” asked Archie hopefully. “I’m frozen solid.”

“No, no, we’d better not,” Hamish said thoughtfully. “We’ll wait here and follow this Frenchman home. The MacArthur will want to know who he is and where he lives.”

“Aye, I suppose you’re right,” Archie admitted gloomily and as raindrops dripped off his wings, prepared for a long, cold wait.

Inside the house, however, the count paused and relaxed gratefully in the warmth that washed over him.

“Come this way, my dear Louis,” Stuart murmured as the butler relieved his visitor of gloves and overcoat. “There are only the two of us, I’m afraid. I do hope you don’t mind being entertained in my study?” He pushed open the study door and gestured to his visitor to enter. “But don’t despair! I’ve a special treat for you this evening; a new addition to my collection that I think will interest you.”

A blazing fire crackled in a handsome marble fireplace and as de Charillon warmed his hands gratefully at the leaping flames, he glanced round the room appreciatively. Its walls were lined with old books, mahogany gleamed and the
comfortably
upholstered armchairs beside the fire were reflected in two tall, strangely-framed mirrors that lay on either side of a heavily-curtained window.

Stuart gestured to one of the chairs. “Do sit down,” he
murmured
.

Louis de Charillon sat and regarded his host thoughtfully. As French Consul, he represented the interests of France in Scotland and well aware that diplomatic relations between the two countries were at an all time low because of the dispute over North Sea fishing rights, wondered why he had been asked to come. Not that it was at all unusual for him to be invited. He had, in actual fact, been a guest in the house many times before as Edward, or “Ned,” Stuart, a Member of the Scottish Parliament, entertained frequently.

The butler brought in refreshments and once the door closed behind him, Stuart, as the count had expected, got down to the serious business of the battle of the trawlers. De Charillon shifted uneasily in his chair for he had serious
personal
doubts as to the wisdom of his Foreign Minister’s policy towards Britain and knew perfectly well that in many places his arguments stood on extremely shaky ground.

Stuart knew it, too. “Your arguments, my dear Louis, just don’t hold water. The truth is that your trawlers are fishing illegally and you know it!” He raised his hand as the count sat up abruptly, his face set in lines of anger at such un-
diplomatic
plain speaking.

Edward Stuart smiled. “It strikes me that what you stand in need of in Scotland just now is a … friend, shall we say? An … influential friend?”

It says much for the count’s training that he did not betray, by even the flicker of an eyelash, that he was shocked to the
core. He had certainly not expected this, and his eyes hardened as he regarded the handsome face that looked at him so steadily. There was a long pause before he spoke. “And you, my dear Edward … do you propose to be this
influential
friend?” he queried.

“That,” Ned Stuart smiled, “is something we might discuss later. First of all, I have some papers that I would like you to have a look at.”

He rose to his feet and the count noted that for someone so generally self-possessed, he seemed strangely excited. As he moved towards a massive desk, scattered with papers, he adjusted a cloth that covered a bulky object on a small side table.

“The new addition to your collection, Ned?” the count
hazarded
a guess.

“Yes! Yes, it is. But I’m not going to show it to you just yet. I wonder if you would like to give me your opinion of these papers? They arrived only last night so I haven’t had time to assess them properly, and too excited, I might add. I’ve been on their trail for a very long time and can’t believe,” he stepped to one side as the count rose and moved to his side, “… the truth is that I still can’t believe that I managed to trace them,” he continued. “They’re in French, as you see. Be careful, won’t you; the paper is quite fragile …”

De Charillon, intrigued at the nervousness in Stuart’s voice, sat at the desk and pulling up a chair, drew the rolls of yellowed documents carefully towards him. As he scanned the first page, however, his casual manner deserted him and his body stiffened.

“But this is amazing …” he muttered, sitting up abruptly and casting his host a look of complete and utter astonishment.

Stuart, perched on the edge of the desk, nodded silently and continued to watch tensely as, turning once more to the
documents
, the count proceeded to read each page very thoroughly indeed.

“My dear Edward,” he said weakly, looking up at last. “These papers,” he gestured towards them, “seem to … seem to imply that you are a direct descendant of Charles Edward Stuart!”

“Bonnie Prince Charlie!” nodded Stuart. He heaved a sigh and frowned thoughtfully. “If the Jacobite Rebellion hadn’t failed, he would have been king of both England and Scotland, you know. My father long suspected that we were descended from him but we never had the proof. Until now, that is.”

“But if they …” the count gestured towards the collection of letters and birth certificates, “…
if
they are genuine, they certainly make you a high-ranking nobleman of Scotland. A prince, perhaps.”

“Certainly, a prince,” Stuart smiled confidently. “If, that is, your French archivists testify to the authenticity of the papers.”

The two men looked at one another in silence and again Stuart smiled as understanding dawned in the eyes of the Frenchman.

“You
do
see that French recognition of my title would strengthen my case immeasurably, don’t you?” he murmured.

As de Charillon nodded, Stuart said softy. “You see, I don’t only have the papers. I also have this!” And, with a flick of his wrist, he whisked off the cloth that covered the object on the table.

It was a crown; a spiked, iron crown set about with
magnificent
rubies. Had Sir James been present, he would have
recognized
it instantly; for it was a magic crown that had, in times past, belonged to the Sultan of Turkey. Stuart picked it up and held it reverently in both hands.

“The ancient crown of the Scots!” he lied glibly.

The count stood transfixed. He was not a fool and looking at the man with the crown in his hands told him all he wanted to know. Ned Stuart did not just want to be a prince: he wanted to be King of Scotland!

Although Mrs MacLean stood aghast, staring in shocked
horror
at her reflection in the mirror she, nevertheless, understood immediately what had happened. Stretching out her hand, she touched the glass tentatively. It was hard and unyielding. No way was she going to be able to get through it. It must, she thought, be a magic mirror. Yes, that was it — it was a magic mirror and it probably hadn’t let her through because she wasn’t wearing a firestone. She frowned.
Now
what was she going to do?

She swung round as a sudden flash of light crackled out of nowhere and such was its force that she almost fell to the floor. The noise, however, heralded the arrival of another player on the stage; for facing the motley group of Turks that had surged towards her, stood a tall, slim stranger dressed in a kilt and velvet jacket. It was the fearsome eagle perched on his shoulder that gave Mrs MacLean the clue to his identity and she sighed with relief as she realized that the man who had appeared so suddenly out of the blue, must be Lord Rothlan.

She looked at him in amazement. Was this really the
fantastic
magician that Neil had talked about non-stop? Her husband had been full of praise for him and Clara had often told her how much she adored the eagle. Amgarad, that’s what she had called it. She had no idea how Lord Rothlan and Amgarad had arrived but now that they had appeared on the scene, she knew she was in safe hands.

“You must be Mrs MacLean,” the stranger said in a pleasant voice as she turned towards him. “Let me introduce myself,” he said with a bow. “My name is Alasdair Rothlan.”

“Yes, I thought you must be,” Mrs MacLean smiled as she
met the warm, brown eyes of the handsome young man who stood before her. “I’m Janet MacLean, Neil and Clara’s mother. I … I don’t quite know what happened here, but I’m more than glad to see you.” Her eyes turned to the eagle that rested on his shoulder. “And … is this Amgarad? That Clara loves so much?”

The great eagle bent its head in welcome but at a sudden movement, its eyes suddenly shifted from Mrs MacLean to the Turks behind her and as several of them moved forward, he flapped his wings warningly. Moving closer to Lord Rothlan, she watched them approach and grasped his arm anxiously.

“These people,” she gestured towards the Turks, “have taken Sir James and my husband and children through that mirror.”

“Yes, I saw them,” Rothlan answered, looking at the Turks sternly. “I watched them through my crystal. This mirror, did you say?”

Lord Rothlan turned to the mirror that formed the cottage door. Moving forward, he ran his hands delicately over the ornate, iron frame, decorated with carvings of flowers and animals, and let his hand rest gently on a carved rose.

“No!” one of the Turks ran up warningly. “Don’t turn it, milord! Don’t turn it or we will be lost. Please, milord, the
time-frame
is set!”

“And where would it take me if I were to step through?” Rothlan asked evenly.

“Milord, to the Sultan’s Palace!”

Even as the Turk answered, however, the mirror rippled
suddenly
and a tall, imposing figure stepped through it. Rothlan recognized him immediately. The Sultan of Turkey himself, no less! He drew Mrs MacLean back as the Sultan was followed by an entourage of equally exotic figures that piled and scrambled into the room after him. Dressed in robes of turquoise and gold and wearing a turban strung with ropes of pearls, the bearded, hawk-like face of the Sultan regarded Lord Rothlan grimly.

“I think it’s time that you and I had words, Rothlan,” he snapped. “You’ve been up to mischief and I want to know why!”

Rothlan bowed low. “Your Majesty!” he murmured.

The Sultan inclined his head.

“Make your bow, Mrs MacLean,” Lord Rothlan said,
smiling
slightly. “This is His Majesty, the Sultan of Turkey, Sultan Sulaiman the Red.”

As Mrs MacLean curtseyed awkwardly, all the people in the restaurant threw themselves on the ground, prostrating themselves before their ruler. The Sultan waved his hand in casual recognition of their presence and after a swift, rather disdainful glance round the restaurant, gestured impatiently towards the mirror.

“I think you will find my palace a lot more comfortable than this,” he said commandingly. “Shall we go?”

It was an order rather than a request and given the charged atmosphere and the threatening growl from the Turks, Lord Rothlan thought it wise to comply. He nodded assent and turned to Mrs MacLean.

“Don’t worry, Mrs MacLean,” he said reassuringly, “you’ll see the others shortly. We’ve got to go through the mirror, though. Take my hand and we’ll be able to go through it together.”

“But where will it take us?” asked Mrs MacLean.

“Why to the Sultan’s Palace,” Rothlan answered, “where else?”

“But isn’t this … I thought … this restaurant is the
Sultan’s Palace
, isn’t it?”

“Ah!” smiled Rothlan. “But we are going to his real palace … in Turkey!”

“In Turkey!” Although Mrs MacLean’s eyes widened at the thought, she was not without courage and her hand
unhesitatingly
grasped Rothlan’s as, with Amgarad on his shoulder, he followed the Sultan through the magic mirror.

Jaikie, sitting hunched against the pouring rain in the branches of one of the ornamental trees in the little courtyard outside, sat up, alert and anxious, as he heard a dull rumble of sound from
inside the restaurant. He knew immediately what it meant and with more speed than grace, shot straight up into the air in a fair imitation of a rocket.

He was just in time. Perching precariously on the edge of an old chimney stack, he peered down into the narrow
passageway
below and watched in horror as the vennel, the little courtyard and the restaurant, slowly fragmented and with a last, tantalizing ripple, disappeared before his eyes — with Sir James and the MacLeans still inside!

Totally devastated, he shivered at the enormity of it all. The MacArthur was most certainly going to tear strips off him for this!